


Split Second

by IMAgentMI, PFLAgentYork (Legendaerie)



Series: RP-verse [11]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, F/M, Healing, Serious Injuries, is this the fourth or fifth time i've put york in a car accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 06:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16969698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMAgentMI/pseuds/IMAgentMI, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/PFLAgentYork
Summary: All it takes is one wrong turn.





	Split Second

**Author's Note:**

> fwiw, Saro insisted on two serious injury fics because she Likes Blood.

It takes all of York’s skill just to keep the Warthog on the road as it veered, twisted and turned like the city planners had taken inspiration from the route of a chased rabbit. The whole city feels like a warren, too, or a beehive; claustrophobic and teeming with alien life. At least the pedestrians are careful to keep out of the road as the thin train of vehicles zigzags through the narrow streets like mechanical lightning. He can't appreciate the honeycombing architecture with its myriads of thin columns and countless amber and green tinted windows; it all blurs into colors and sound as he keeps his good eye locked on the car several lengths ahead of them, trusting his instincts to keep them from colliding with the buildings.

Connie is driving the car behind him, the backup vehicle with North and Maine; the sniper is trying to get a bead on the driver but with how the roads wind it's impossible for now. On the seat next to him, crouched instead of seated just in case they get close enough for her to jump, is Carolina.

She holds tight to the windshield, trying to stay low enough not to get blown off balance, but high enough that she is ready if her chance comes. Carolina fights the urge to take her eyes off the car ahead of her to glance at York. With only one eye, navigating this kind of close quarters has to be stressful at the very least, but he's been flawless so far. Delta has to be assisting, but that would bring its own set of stresses as well. None of which she can help right now, so she keeps her focus ahead on the car that keeps just enough distance to be maddening. 

Behind him, Washington makes possibly the worst observation imaginable.

“Almost wish Texas was here. Her motorcycle would really come in handy.”

Unseen in the helmet, York makes a face.

That does rip Carolina's eyes off the road.  “I think we can handle this situation  _ without _ Texas, agent.” Each cold syllable cracks like a whip and Wash openly leans back away from her. “If you aren't as confident, then maybe you should go back to Niner and sit this one out. No? Then  _ shut up.” _

The car is deadly quiet, save for the sounds of the wind whipping by them. Washington cowers, thoroughly chastised.

“You would be good on a motorcycle, too--”

“Let it Die. Before we do.” York holds his breath and leans as tries to make a 100-degree turn - Connie’s car shoots past his, missing T boning the backseat by inches. They almost go on two wheels for a moment but they’re clear by the time the third car, a UNSC one, screeches past on the brakes. 

For a moment, it's just two cars in the pursuit - the bounty hunter and the lead Freelancer car, down an alley so tight the rear view mirror ping against the brittle metal buildings, chips and flecks of shrapnel flying backward. Washington ducks the worst of them until the road widens again, its path wriggling like a fish out of water.

Carolina is in serious danger of being thrown sideways into York or out of the car completely, and drops back down onto her seat, white-knuckled on the windshield and anything else she can safely get a hand on. She chances a glance behind them and can see a vehicle, but its so far back there's no way they could catch up, short of the lead car losing control.

“Don't slow down! Keep right up with him! It's just us now and if we lose him, we will never find him again!”

York would bite his tongue, but Delta warns him the movement of the vehicle might cause him to bite it off. 

Connie’s voice chimes in. “ _ If you can stay on the trail just a couple more minutes, I think I can get back to you.” _

“Please do.” Separating the team might prove the better plan by upping the chances of intercepting the bounty hunter. Delta’s been trying to anticipate routes this whole time, but just following the car has proven to take all their brainpower. Maybe Theta can, now that they have a moment to recollect their wits.

“What happened to the barriers from the Xin’chayl government? Our back up?” Washington asks, trying to anchor himself in the back as York hits a pothole.

“Don't rely on people outside the project. If they get here, great. Assume it is just us, that they couldn't mobilize quickly, that orders got crossed, anything. Trust your teammates.” Carolina nearly gets thrown into York again, even sitting this time. She turns to throw Wash another dirty look through her helmet.  “ _ And focus on the goddamn job _ .”

York would kill for a radio right now. The tension in the Warthog is not helping his nerves, but he's focusing too hard to play mediator. Delta offers, but York isn't sure if its sweat or blood dripping onto his upper lip so he declines.

They're actually gaining on the bastard now, and York pushes the vehicle to its limits as they come across a straight stretch of alley with no visible branches to the side. Firing range, maybe. “Guns, boss?” he asks, licking his lips. Still can't tell which it is.

Carolina hesitates only a moment before dropping lower in her seat to get out of the way. “Wash, you're up.” 

Bracing himself between the two front seats, Washington opens fire with his rifle.

The bounty hunter’s car tries to swerve, but with nowhere to go, all it can do is fishtail, bouncing between the neighboring buildings like a pinball in an arcade. York swears he even hears the appropriate dings and thuds.

He must hit a tire or something, but it's a moment late; the bounty hunter’s car spins into an intersection, York following. And the moment he pulls out into the next road, everything goes horribly wrong.

Washington didn’t hit a tire, he hit part of the engine, pouring oil or lubricant all over the road. York feels the wheels hit the wet patch and knows, with sick certainty, they’re going to crash. Instead of going forward, both vehicles veer wildly, spinning out of control. Someone yells for them to jump but York is buckled in and it's all he can do to guide the car into a building corner and away from his teammates. 

The side of the car slams into the wall, cushioned by bags of garbage or debris. But something sharp and agonizing drives the breath completely out of him, and as the engine dies and warning lights erupt in his HUD, Delta tells him one thing.

“ _ Don't look.” _

Carolina leveled herself off the road, staggering slightly as she gets to her feet and nearly trips over a body in grey and yellow armour, weakly pushing himself up off the ground.

“Wash -- Wash, get up--”  Carolina grabs his arm, hauling him to his feet, her head whipping to each side, taking in the scene.  To her left, she sees York lifting his head, still seated in the Warthog, and she’s about to call out to him when movement catches her eye. Further ahead the bounty hunter climbs out of the wreckage of his own vehicle, looking her way before taking off down the street at an unsteady run around yet another turn in the road. “I’ve got him!”

Washington doesn’t follow. “Carolina--”

Carolina pounds down the narrow laneway and even as shaken up as she is, she hardly needs her speedboost to catch up to the hobbled bounty hunter. He’s barely making it even to a jog, and she can catch up on the straightaway.

“Carolina, I--” 

“ _ Not now, Wash _ .”

It’s a matter of seconds before she closes the distance to hit him from behind in a sprawling tackle. He lays beneath her, moaning weakly as Carolina cuffs his hands behind his back and yanks him to his feet. 

Just ahead of them, a Warthog pulls up. North and Maine hop out, the latter heading over immediately to check the wreck of the bounty hunter’s car.

“Need a hand?” North asks, patient and unassuming.

“Do I look like I need a hand, North?”  She regrets her tone the moment her words are out of her mouth, but doesn’t attempt to retract them. “Go check with York - see if our warthog is completely wrecked or if we can at least use it to get out of here.”

She marches back the way they came, half supporting, half dragging her captive, and hears from down the road the sound of new engines, of tires crunching gravel and debris. They get to the curve in the road as Wash’s panicked voice rings out in her helmet again.

“Carolina-- it’s  _ York--”  _

Carolina freezes between steps, then just as abruptly takes off again at twice the pace, snarling as the prisoner barely manages to keep on his feet. 

“Wash, what’s going on?”

They clear the turn and as the scene opens before them again, Carolina’s heart nearly stops. 

Her first comparison is to flies on a carcass. The Warthog is in one piece but it's been badly hit, with trash and debris scattered in the road around it. York is in the front seat, one arm held up awkwardly as Washington fumbles with something at his side. A couple UNSC soldiers are standing around, trying to move garbage out of the way. Then her view clears, and she sees the two foot metal rod sticking out of York’s side. And as Washington moves his hand off the golden chest piece, he leaves behind a smeared crimson handprint.

“We’re trying to get the rod secured enough to use the biofoam, but his arm--”

York makes a noise that chills her to the bone; a dismissive snort with no fight behind it, a sigh with no air behind it. “Mmmfine, don’ worry,” a slurred rasp heady with painkillers and blood loss.

He always was a terrible liar.

“ _ What about his arm, Agent Washington? _ ” Carolina stands, rooted to the spot, her gaze locked somewhere between the crimson handprint and the metal bar. The prisoner fidgets, a mere shuffle of his feet and Carolina's fear bursts into rage. She hauls him forward, up to the stunned UNSC soldiers and throws the bounty hunter into the debris at their feet before picking her way over to the warthog.  “Someone deal with him.” 

“Just trying to keep it from moving the rod,” Washington grunts, crawling into York’s lap to try to keep the arm straight out and level.

“Tryin’ to cozy up to me, Wash?” York teases, the words slurred and weak. “Gonna put on a show while you’re there? I could put on some sexy music if you wanna set the mood.”

The look Washington throws over his shoulder is one that begs Carolina for help. Or at least mercy.

“He’s half-addled with pain, and you are a grown man, Agent.”  Carolina picks her way carefully to the vehicle, wincing as it shifts slightly as she climbs into the back. “Deal with it.” She positions herself behind York, her hand under his arm to take its weight. “I've got him. Do what you need to do.”

York’s head tilts back, but instead of a pithy reply his helmet just gently knocks against hers.

“Hey,” he says, all soft and warm and very, very obviously in love in front of UNSC troops.

“Hey. You're going to be fine.” With York's body shielding her from view of the troops, Carolina brushes her finger along the side of his neck. “I've got you, and as soon as Wash gets the biofoam in you and gets you stable enough to move, we are going to get you back home.”

He starts to say something about getting  _ his biofoam  _ somewhere but is cut off by his own hiss of agony. The aerosol sound of the canister drowns out the worst but she can see how much it hurts as he tenses. Fresh blood seeps from around the biofoam, slowly stopping and leaving York breathing hard and painful.

“I know, I know,” she murmurs,  switching to a private channel to keep her words from anyone else but York. “This is good, though. It hurts but this will help you get back safe. And maybe once we get home and you are on the mend, I'll give you that lap dance that Wash chickened out on. What do you think? That give you something to look forward to?”

He doesn't answer, just relaxes back against her and breathes hard through his teeth. The foam solidifies in moments, a thick artificial scab, and then the real challenge comes.

“We need to move him,” says one of the UNSC rank and file assigned to help them, and Carolina shoots him a look as piercing as the metal sticking out of York’s side.

Her voice is just as hard, just as rasping. “I’ve got him.”

Washington helps with the legs as Carolina lifts York’s upper body, carefully stepping backwards over the seats as they drag him free. Every step she reinforces with anger like armor, anger like rocket fuel in her veins that make carrying a limp man in full Spartan Mark IV armor at eye level possible as she steps to the ground. Anger like a life vest around her, because if she lets it slip for a second she’s going to drown in self-doubt and drop him.

Even through all of that, the smothered sound of agony that escapes through York’s clenched teeth cuts her to the bone. But she has no kind words to spare, not when every bit of her breath she needs to keep him steady as Washington clambers out of the Warthog.

Carolina feels her grip slide, wet with blood. The split second she lets go for a fresh grip, the smell of the blood and the acrid bio foam hits her nose. It’s familiar by now, but the scent alone is enough to make her skin clammy with anxiety. 

“Don’t you dare die,” she hisses at him, genuine rage in her tone. “That’s an order.”

York snorts, a feeble sound of dismissal; or maybe that’s just how he’s breathing now with a pipe sticking out of him.

North steps in, slipping his arms around York’s hips and adding his strength to the ersatz gurney. It straightens York’s back and he seems to breathe easier for it. The bed of a one of the other UNSC vehicles has been cleared of gear and spread with a tarp, and between the three of them they get York laid out on it.

Carolina manages to find enough room to kneel awkwardly beside him. "Wash, in the seat ahead of me, and turn around. Gonna need your help keeping this thing still. Driver!" she bellows, rising on her knees to face the soldier who turns toward her in the front seat. "Forward at walking speed or slower. And you --" she points at the nearest UNSC soldier standing next to the vehicle. "Get in front and clear aside any debris that could jostle the jeep. Rocks, twigs, anything. We need smooth over speed right now, but we still got to move.”

“North," she swings her head around again as the purple armoured soldier approaches. "If you aren't already on the radio with Niner, get on and keep her on. I want constant communication, and the closest thing we can manage for a straight line between the Pelican and us.”

“Yes ma’am,” says each of the three men in scattered unison. 

With all the foot traffic from both UNSC troops trying to direct local vehicles and the openly gawking native races, the going is slow. The bleeding is better because Delta said so, but it’s still smeared all over his gold armor and York has gone quiet. Usually she finds herself tuning his absent chatter out, letting it fade into white noise. Here, though, she’d give her own beating heart for a playful crack about the mission.

In the car behind them sits the bounty hunter, staring at her with a blank expression. He’s human, his own helmet stripped away and his hands cuffed, but his face is just as much of a mask to his feelings. Until his eyes dip down to York’s body, and a faint flicker of a smile tips his lips.

Anger flares white hot, raging up through Carolina until she burns with the need to snap his neck, to crush his windpipe and listen to his last agonized minutes as he gurgles for breath that will never come. She wants to stand above him, her own helmet off and smiling as he claws his own throat to blood strips, wants to see his terror as the light leaves his eyes. 

But any move she could make right now would take her away from York, and her hands might as well be glued to the rebar. Nothing could pry her from his side. She turns away, desire for revenge shoved down deep inside where it can't distract from the only important thing currently left in her world.

By the time they make their way to an intersection large enough for the Pelican, blood has seeped onto the tarp below York but his hand has found Carolina’s ankle. Fingertips trace patterns into the Kevlar fabric between the armor plating, an unseen little reminder that he’s still functioning. His breathing is uneven, and the threat of the metal catching his lung hangs heavy over the entire car. And still, he’s trying to assure her without speaking that he’s all right.

“It’s like you went out looking to get stabbed,” Niner complains when they get to the Pelican. She’s landed it in the middle of some kind of city square, dangerously close to some kind of statue or fountain, and is watching the procession with her hands on her hips. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

“Hey, Niner,” York greets, tilting his helmet in the direction of her voice. The hand not stroking Carolina’s ankle gives an unsteady wave, jostling the metal bar.

“Stop it.  _ Don't move.” _  It’s all Carolina can do to keep a shrill edge out of her voice, but she still manages to crack command like a whip. “Hands down, York. You need to hold still.” Carolina raises her head, throwing Niner a dirty look under her helmet. “North, Wash, get in the Pelican and get the field stretcher. I've got him.”

York freezes in the act of waving. “Hand down, or hold still?” he asks, helmet swinging back to catch her gaze through his visor.

“Hand down, then hold still. We are going to be moving you in just a second, and I am doing my best not to jostle you. I don't need you to do it yourself.”  Her words come out far harsher than she intends but she will apologize later. Right now she only has eyes for North and Wash walking down the Pelican ramp, wheeling an actual gurney between them. Carolina strains to remember if she ever noticed a gurney on the Pelican before, but it doesn't matter. They have one, and it's better than a stretcher.

They pull it up alongside the vehicle, and Carolina continues to hold the rebar steady, moving with them as the two men gently lift their friend and transfer him to the gurney. It takes only a moment to strap him down. Carolina has to force herself to keep them at an unhurried walk to the Pelican, and she feels a surge of affection for the UNSC soldier who had cleared the road of debris the entire way here, and who walks ahead of them now, kicking loose rocks out of the way for the last meters they have left to travel. All she can manage is a nod to him as they move aboard, then he is out of her mind again, her entire attention back on York.

He’s quiet again; exhausted or chastised, it’s hard to tell. The red on his armor is growing dark and sticky, which should be a good sign that the bleeding has stopped, but it makes her itch to wash it off. There’s no way for him to caress her now, but as the back hatch of the Pelican closes his helmet tilts in her direction again.

He sighs. He coughs, and she watches his body go rigid from the pain.

“Thanks, Lina Bean,” he murmurs, and she feels her face flood with heat. If she didn’t have her helmet on, her cheeks might match her hair.

“Don’t try to talk,” she replies, watching the uneven rise and fall of his chest. “You might hurt it worse.”

“Since when has me talking made any situation worse?”

“I don’t know,” North cuts in, “maybe all of them?”

Careful not to move his arm, York rotates the hand closest to North and extends his middle finger.

Carolina bites back the urge to tell them to knock it off. A little humour, however weak, is a distraction from pain. She helps North anchor the gurney, listens to Niner’s engines build in volume. She pays little attention as the rest of her teammates climb aboard and take their seats. She stays standing, crouched protectively over York to support the rebar as the ship shudders slightly, then lifts off the ground. Hidden from her teammates by her own body, Carolina brushes her fingers along the side of York's hand and switches to a private channel.  

“Not much longer now, okay? The worst is over. You'll be home soon. The doctors will take care of you. I'll take care of you. I promise.”

“You always do,” York murmurs, trying to tangle their fingers together.

“Always will.” Carolina helps him manage to thread his fingers between hers, and takes a deep calming breath. “Not much longer, okay?” The ship hasn't fully broken out of the atmosphere yet, but she squeezes his hand and lies to them both and settles best she can for the trip. “Not long.” 

 

————-

 

It’s easier to breathe when York wakes up again, but the pounding in his head and the taste in the back of his mouth is almost worse. His entire side aches and is stiff with bandages, but there’s nothing sticking out of him. Still a little out of it from the anesthesia, York waves his arm to make sure it’s really gone.

“Who are you waving at? I'm over here.”  Smiling and almost boneless with relief, Carolina catches his hand and lays it back on the blanket, holding it in both of hers. “How are you feeling? Want me to go get the doctor?”

“‘S gone, not a Yorkabob anymore,” he slurs. Tries to stretch and hisses, stopping short in sudden pain. “Oh. Ow. Hope that wasn’t a stitch.”

Carolina goes pale, leans forward to pull down the blankets to try and examine the completely bandaged operation site. “Is it bleeding again? Can you tell?” She carefully snatches his hands out of the air and set them down again, this time holding them down beneath her own.

York makes a face. “Can’t tell. Geez, your  _ face _ . It’s a  _ stitch _ . If it ripped I promise you won’t notice among the rest of my scars, babe.”

“You don’t understand.” Carolina has to force her voice to something approaching calm.  “I was there, York. I saw when they took it out, I saw how much you bled and how long it took for them to get it under control. If it has reopened, it is serious. But--" Carolina eyes him again and visibly relaxes. “if you were bleeding, it would be everywhere by now.”

York eases his hands on top of hers, pulls them down towards his sides. “I’m okay now. Seeeeeee?” and he draws the vowels out with a tilt of his lips, fully aware of how she has to lean into his personal space as he tugs her closer. Fully aware that they can’t kiss here, not with the possibility of discovery around every corner. “No need to worry any more. I’m good. Just a little more holy than before.”

“Holy... “ Carolina snorts and her smile starts to reappear. “Well, your terrible sense of humour is still intact. You can't be in that bad a shape.” She takes a chance and softly bumps her forehead to his, “I guess you're fine.”

“Yeah. Let me up, I’ll run a mile.” He bumps his nose against hers and sighs.

“Soon. But for now, rest. You'll have to work hard to be back up to my speed -- might as well take advantage of the time off and get some sleep.”

York groans in defeat and lays back down in the bed. “Where did they put the damn pole thing, anyway? Was gonna keep it as a souvenir. Beat the shit out of Wyoming with it.”

“Do you really want it? I’m sure it is probably still around.” Carolina couldn't imagine wanting to keep the damn thing if it had been her with a bar of metal in her guts, but if it helped York cope, she would do anything. “I believe medical was trying to grow a culture of any bacteria that might be on it, so they are a step ahead if you show signs of infection. Want me to go call dibs on it for you?”

“Sure. Ask them to leave any gross stuff on it, if they’ll let me. Could be cool, smacking someone with fifteen different kinds of space garbage germs.”

He doesn’t mean it, but the visual makes him feel better. Joking makes him feel better, helps him forget the sickening crunch of feeling metal scrape bone, how it punched him out of his own body and didn’t let him back in. Even now, buzzed on painkillers and with synthetic blood no doubt pumping through his veins, York feels dangerously dissociated. 

“How soon until they let me out?” he asks, staring at the ceiling.

“Depends. At least one more day, but after that you can leave, conditionally.” Carolina ticks points off on her fingers. “As long as you aren't running a fever. As long as you don't reopen the wound. As long as there is no sign of pus. As long as you can handle having Delta in and can put him in on your own. And as long as you can use the bathroom on your own. The nurse specifically said ‘he's not leaving here if he can't shit safely.’” Carolina’s mouth twitches as though she might smile, but otherwise she sits placidly at Yorks side, calm and patient.

“As opposed to shitting dangerously,” York says drily.

That breaks Carolinas face into a wide smile. “Maybe I should get you a hard hat and a safety harness? Just to be safe? Oh, I brought Delta for you, whenever you feel like checking off one of the other items on their list.” Carolina holds up an envelope with a slight bulge at the bottom and leans over York to place it on his bedside table. 

“Thanks. I… think I like the peace for right now.” York eyes the envelope. “I don’t remember taking him out. Is he okay? Does he know I’m all right?” 

“He's fine. He was removed before your surgery, partly for safekeeping and partly because the surgeons were afraid that stressing one of you would stress the other. They didn't want to take any risks that weren't strictly necessary. As it was, it was…” Carolina pauses, then decides he doesn't need details. Not now. “.... a very difficult surgery.”

“Difficult enough you’re gonna baby me for a few days?” he asks, starting to sit up and pausing as a wave of exhaustion and dizziness threatens to put him back down. “Ugh. I hate the synth blood, makes me itch from the inside out.”

Carolina gently pushes him back down onto the mattress. “I absolutely will baby you… unless you do something stupid, hurt yourself and have to stay here longer.”

York sighs and relents, rapping his fingers. “I know, I know. I just—“

He means to say that he wants to go home but that’s not true. He wants to go somewhere where Carolina can curl up next to him, rest her head on his shoulder and stay there until he feels complete again.

Looking at her now, all the tight-jawed fury and envy are gone, leaving only the exhausted but satisfied confident women he is used to seeing. “Glad we caught the guy,” he finishes, pressing gently on his bandages. Feeling for the void in his ribs where the metal had pierced him. He’s going to be feeling that one for a while.

“So am I,” Carolina responds dryly. “And glad to have him off our hands. Nearly lost my temper and killed the bastard. I'm glad there is no longer the temptation.”

“Good.” York keeps pressing until the finds the edges, can feel the distinct shape under the skin. Finally satisfied, he pulls his hand away and checks his fingers. No blood. 

Wrapping his fingers around the frame of the bed, York slowly pulls himself into a sitting position, careful not to tense his stomach too much. “Just testing my limits,” he assures her as she starts to move to stop him. “I’m going slow. I won’t pass out.”

That being said, he does feel a little nauseous.

Carolina cocks her head, watching him with a look caught between concerned and skeptical. “I really should go get the doctor. Should have gotten her when you first woke up, but I was eager to just have done time with you myself.”

The pathetic look York throws her assures her how much he wants her exclusive company. 

“I know.” Carolina softens, brushes the very tips of her fingers through Yorks hair. “I know. But just be patient for a little while, okay? In a day or so you will be out of here. Just listen to the doctors and take care of yourself.” Carolina leans closer and lowers her voice, despite there being no one else in the room. “And once you see back in your quarters, I will make sure all your needs are looked after. Get you tucked into bed with your favourite hot water bottle --" Her voice drops even more. “--me.”

York’s heartbeat monitor quickens. 

Carolina smiles at the sound. “I love doing that. You're so  _ easy _ .”

“Other people have described me as impossible,” he reminds her, raising one knee to rest his face on it. If he’s honest, sitting up took a lot out of him and is causing a dull ache in his side, but he doesn’t know if laying back down would make it worse.

“Want me to raise the head?” Carolina has her hand on the bed controls in an instant. “Would that help?” She glances at the door, trying to hide a cringe. “I probably should have grabbed a doctor as soon as you woke up.”

He raises an eyebrow and grins. “Oh, I think you can do a fine job of that when we’re—“

He shifts and hisses, then presses his forehead to his knee. “Shit. Ow. Okay, let me put in D, then you can me lay back down.”

If there’s a tremble in the fingers that tear open the envelope, he’s good at hiding it. Less good at hiding how he’s careful how to breathe, shallow slow breaths, as he feels out the AI port in the back of his neck and clicks Delta into place.

Carolina doesn't wait to confirm Delta is fine, but immediately puts an arm around York to support him while using the bed control to raise the top half of the mattress on an incline. She eases him back down the rest of the way, removing the pillow to keep his back straight. “Just… don't try and sit up again without help, okay? I think you have ‘tested your limits’ enough for now.”

He makes a face. “Yeah,” he pants, “that’s fair.”

The feeling of Delta checking his condition is like the hyperawareness or touching something with fingers whose nails have just been cut too short. Not pain exactly, but it makes him feel especially naked and cold under the blankets.

“Quit it,” York mumbles, draping his forearm over his eyes to try to limit the sudden sensory overload as Delta pushes his senses in to the max in selfish curiosity. “You’re canceling out the painkillers, D.”

“Is he hurting you?” Carolina sits up, eyes widening in alarm.

“Just digging around,” he says distractedly. “Trying to figure out what happened so I just… feel more.” 

“Has he stopped?  _ Delta _ \--"  Carolina breaks off as there is a knock at the door and a tall, broad-shouldered blonde woman in blue scrubs lets herself in. 

“Good morning, agents. Good to see you awake, Agent York. I’m just here to record your vitals and check under your dressing so I can report to the surgeon before he comes in. How are you feeling?”

York moves his arm out of the way just enough to peek, then off his face entirely. “Oh, you’re— Agent Michigan, right? Been a while. How are you?” he asks with a little curious tilt of his head to get her into his good eye’s sight. “What are you doing here?”

The woman stops short, blinking in surprise before breaking into an easy smile, tucking a lock of graying hair behind her ear.  “I'm great, thanks. It's nice to be remembered -- without my armour, few people recognize the broad taking their blood samples or running diagnostics as anything more than another med grunt. And please, it's just Mitch.” 

“And as for what I’m doing here--”  She turns away long enough to remove a small black handheld device from what appears to be a charger on the wall. “I’m a field medicine specialist. The snipers hit the ranges, infiltration experts have their holo-lock sims. But me - part of my training is I work in the medbay, same as I work with pugil sticks or put in my hours on the sim floor. You can stay if you wish,” she says to Carolina, who had made no movement towards the door, “this will only take a moment.

“I’ll try to just stay out of the way.” Carolina’s dry tone is wasted on the older woman who is already focused on York, moving the device the length of his body, frowning slightly. As she makes her way up to his head, her frown deepens and she meets York’s eyes. 

“You already have your AI in?”

“Yes?” he says, phrasing it like a question.

Mitch gives the smallest sigh before making a slight adjustment to the device. “Just jump straight back in. Of course.” She resumes her scan and then stops again. “Can you please ask him to be still…  quiet… inactive… whichever would be the most polite way to ask him to chill? So I can get a reading off you, not him?” 

York gives her a rueful smile. “It’s done. If he’s giving you further issues, I can take him out. Or Carolina, if you don’t want me to sit up again.” 

“It shouldn’t be a problem. Only takes a second...and....done. I just didn't want you to get an inaccurate reading that is going to keep you here longer than strictly necessary.”  Mitch finishes with the device in a flurry of keystrokes and replaced it on the wall. “Okay, just one last thing I need to do. I gotta take a look under your dressing, make a couple notes to pass along to the surgeon. We will keep it in place until after the examination and then either I or one of the attending nurses will replace it with a new dressing. So let me take a look....”

Mitch peels back part of the surgical tape that holds layers of gauze over the surgery site to take a look, then her forehead furrows and she leans closer. “This -- this looks great. Better than I was expecting, considering the circumstances. You use a healing unit in the field, correct?”

“Yep,” he agrees, throwing a playful look Carolina’s way. “I put it to work a lot, too.”

“Hmmm.” Mitch stands up straight, eyes distant as she thinks. “Does anyone else on your team use a healing unit? I wonder if regular use increases the body's efficiency of healing itself without the armour enhancement.” She snaps back to the here and now, face scrunching up in a playfully exasperated way. “Where were you when I was doing my research papers my last years of school?”

Carolina bites back the desire to say York was probably still in grade school. “Is there anything more we need to know before the surgeon comes in, Agent?” 

Mitch’s smile disappears to a cooler, neutral expression that matches her voice exactly. “The plan currently is that Agent York rests here overnight. The surgeon will speak with him in regards to the possibility of using our own rather specialized healing unit on the premises. One more night here so we can monitor him and he should be able to return to his quarters and then ease back into his normal routine. If he opts not to use the new tech, things will take considerably longer, but it is expected he would still make a full recovery.”

York’s shoulders slump; a subtle change not reflected in his face, an easy gesture of despair to miss. 

“Thanks for the heads up, Agent Mitch. Mind if I think about the treatment?”

“By all means think about it - but I'm not the one you should talk to. I'm just trying to give you a helpful heads up.”  Mitch glances from York to Carolina and back. “I have everything I need so I'll clear out and give you a little time before the surgeon comes in.”

“Thank you.” Carolina tries to keep the her tone from being too harsh, but judging by Mitch’s expression, doesn’t wholly succeed.

Once she’s gone, York melts back into the sheets. “Sorry for getting stabbed again,” he mutters. “I’ll use the unit. If they’ll let me.” He starts to take a deep breath. “I don’t want to stay in here longer than I have—“

The last few words explodes into a cough. York’s face twists in agony, and he forces his breathing to settle. 

“Don’t want you to get lonely or anything,” he manages, as though his entire being doesn’t radiate ‘ _please_ _hold me it hurts_ ’ as clear as a distress beacon from his armor.

“York?” Carolina leans down to take his hand, eyes intense as she searches his face. “Do you need me to go get her again?”

He hesitates, eyes closed. “No. No, I’m… all right. Probably should talk less. It… did it hit my lung? D says it… it feels like it did.”

The fingers that thread between hers, at least, feel sure and strong, even if the pulse that runs through it is hard to find.

“Just itches. And hurts.”

“Yeah, punctured one, I think.”  Carolina closes her eyes, trying to will away the mental pictures that spring up of the surgery, the blood dripping steadily off the table. She wraps her free arm around him, getting down as close as she can be to nuzzle her nose against his cheek. 

“Neat,” he says drily. “No cardio for a while, huh?”

Carolina pulls back a little so she can meet his eyes with a small smile. “Nope. Silver lining, I suppose.” Her laugh is weak, but still a laugh. She leans her forehead to his, cupping his face in her hands, not caring who might see. “You’re going to be fine, York.” She strokes his cheek with a thumb for a moment, then wraps her arms around him as gently as she can. “I promise. You’re going to be fine.”

\--------

From the observation deck, Carolina watches York laying on a bed, a silvery blanket draped over his body and she would almost swear that she can see him shivering. She knows from her own experience in the care of this machine how unpleasant it can be -- she remembers the sensation of the serum in her blood flushing from hot to ice in an instant, the way the cold seemed to suck the life out of her limbs, leaving her shaky and weak. 

Carolina checks her watch, but knowing how long it has taken does nothing to tell her how much longer it may be. Things have been streamlined since her stint as the Project’s guinea pig, but she had spent nearly eight hours out in that same bed, so it could still end hours earlier than hers but still leave him with hours to go, right now. 

Below her, a nurse and a tech walk out onto the floor and begin removing and folding the heavy silver blanket. 

....then again, maybe it wouldn’t take so long after all.

Carolina stands and takes a step closer to the glass. York’s eyes are closed and he doesn’t appear to be moving, but judging by the team’s slow measured movements, this is to be expected. She herself doesn’t remember the end of her procedure. She simply woke up over twelve hours later, still exhausted enough to sleep for days. 

The nurse below approaches York’s bed, readying an IV for his last batch of nutrients that his body needs to replace after forced healing. One last wound on his body, but this one won’t be erased as quickly, will last longer than the hole in his side where the piece of rebar had been. Carolina watches and waits, refusing to move until he is wheeled out of sight, just in case he opens his eyes while still on the floor, looking for her in the window. 

“Hey,” comes a gentle voice from behind her and a delicious smell. “I brought you coffee.”

North approaches with a steaming cup and a gentle smile. He’s in his armor, a reminder that despite everything that happened on the mission life on the ship has continued to go on. A reminder that her own responsibilities are waiting for her outside of that door.

“ _ And I brought York flowers! _ ” Theta shows off an unsteady hologram of a cluster of daisies. “ _ For when he wakes up. Do you like them?” _

Exhausted and worried as she is, Carolina’s wide smile is genuine. “I  _ love _ them, Theta. And I know that York will too. What a thoughtful gift.” 

She turns, including North in the smile and sentiment as she accepts the coffee. “Same to you -- thanks.”

“No problem. We were scheduled to spar twenty minutes ago. I think it’s safe to assume you can still beat me in hand to hand, so Theta told F.I.L.I.S. you won.” North conceals a smile. “Guess he has something in common with Delta after all. Pity it’s just being a meddler.”

Carolina groans, closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, North. I thought I changed the schedules in time -- guess I missed that one.”  She opens them again, watches the nurse taping a line of tubing to York’s arm - she must have missed when the needle actually went in. It’s a strange thing to feel guilty about, but she does. “He’s pretty much done. They’ll be moving him into recovery in just a bit. I wouldn’t worry about trying to visit quite yet - when I did this, I was out for half a day. I’ll send you a message when he’s awake.”  Carolina takes a sip of coffee and hums with gratitude. “Just what the doctor ordered. Thank you so much.”

Even through the glove, the hand he rests on her shoulder is warm.

“We’re a team. It’s what we do. We all love him, too. Or at least most of us,” he amends with a laugh. “Sometimes I wonder how playful his animosity is with Wyoming.”

Carolina is listening, is trying to listen, but the nurse is now laying York’s arm back down and pulling a new blanket up over him. “They’re moving him out.”  They watch as the bed is carefully turned and wheeled out the door, and Carolina glances at her watch again as soon as its out of sight. “It’ll take them a few minutes to get him settled into a room.” She lifts her head and is able to finally give North her full attention. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Anything.”

She hands North a small envelope. “Delta’s in here. I’m holding onto him for York, but I think he’d want to be updated. I don’t want to ask you to pull Theta - but if you have a little time to find a projector for him, just let him know? I’d be very grateful.”

Something seems to shift in both of them - in North’s expression and in Theta’s hologram. It’s a look she doesn’t like. Something alien and yet eerily familiar.

“I’ll… bring that right to you. You should hold on to him for now.” As if with effort, North passes back the envelope. “York gave him to you. Not me.”

Carolina takes it with both hands, but her attention is all on North. “Are you okay? Your face just went completely pale. Well, paler than usual.”

“We’re okay. Just…”

North hesitates. He’s always been careful with his words, more so than anyone else, but in the end he simply shakes his head.

“Try not to offer Delta to anyone else, okay? AIs are in high demand.”

“But you…” Carolina’s mouth drops open as North walks out without another word. For a moment she thinks about following him, but the pull back to York is too strong. She folds Delta’s envelope in half and sticks him back in her pocket, then hurries back towards Recovery.

It turns out to be the last wave of treatment. When they wheel him out of the room with the healing unit, York is pale and still. He looks worse than he did in Recovery this morning. Maybe not as bad as he did post-op, and considerably less bloody.

He doesn’t react when she steps into the room, or when she speaks to his nurse.

“When will the sedation wear off?”

“Oh, we didn’t sedate him. It’s just part of the process to be tired,” says the nurse, barely looking up from his charts. “He’ll be fine.”

Carolina knows that much - she remembers her own exhaustion from a similar ordeal under the care of the same machine. But this -- did she look this bad, then?  As bad as York does now? She did sleep for nearly twelve hours straight, if she remembers correctly, so… maybe she did. 

Carolina glances around the room and sees a chair against a wall, near the door. It’s a little short next to the bed and it’s hard, plastic and looks uncomfortable, but it will be good enough. She carries it back one-handed, positioning herself even with York’s shoulders before setting it down. She stands next to him a moment, painfully aware of the other people in the room, doctors and nurses chatting, others moving in and out. They are barely paying her any attention at all, but it’s enough to make her rein herself in. She contents herself for now with fussing over his blankets, brushing her hand over his forehead to check for temperature and sweat. But his skin is cool and dry, his breathing slow and steady, so Carolina gives his hand a short squeeze, sits down in the awful plastic chair, and keeps her vigil.

 

——-

 

York wakes up in the dead of ship’s night, eyes and body like lead but the urge to go to the bathroom too strong to resist. His body feels as though his veins have been flooded with sand, prickling and irritating and weighing him down as he sits up.

He’s reaching for the IVs, tempted to rip them out as their pull slows his movement, when he sees Carolina asleep in the chair beside his bed. She’s stirring as he watching, and it occurs to him that the warmth in his right hand was her gentle grip for an unknown time. York’s heart does a somersault in his chest and he stares at her, hunched on the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor.

Carolina raises her head, blinking muzzily as she takes in her surroundings, her hand in his, and finally York sitting up in bed, awake and watching her. Even then, it takes another beat longer for everything to come together.

“Oh fuck, you're awake.” Carolina shakes her head, as though to eject the last lingering strands of sleep. “Sorry. I was trying to stay awake, wanted to see you wake up.” She blinks a couple more times before her brain shifts gear again. “Hold on, let me get a nurse. We’ll get the IVs out of you.”

“I love you,” he says softly. There’s a sadness in his voice. An apology.

“I love you, too.” She may have lowered her voice to say it, but even if the room had been filled with doctors and nurses, all standing around watching, nothing could keep her from reaching out, brushing her fingers over his cheek. “You okay?”

He leans into her touch. “Not really. Think they’ll be mad if I use the bathroom before they get here? I just… I’m tired of people who aren’t you touching me.”

Carolina is still for only a moment. “You can’t go anywhere with that IV in you.  _ Do not take it out yourself _ \-- let me do it.”

Trying to stay quiet, Carolina moves to a small counter in the recovery room, rummages around in drawers until she finds squares of sterile gauze and some bandaids.  She hurries back, ripping the package open with her teeth and removes the piece of gauze. She folds it into quarters one-handed, gets York to lay his arm as flat as he can along the hospital bed rail. 

Carolina peels back the surgical tape over the needle site and the padding beneath it. She wastes no time - Carolina covers the entry point with the gauze, pulls out the needle in a smooth motion and presses down on the wound to stop any bleeding that may occur.  She looks up to check on him, and after a quick glance around, leans forward to brush her lips against his. She doesn’t wait long, fixing the bandaid over the gauze she she can finally help him up. “Need a hand getting to the bathroom?”

He studies her for a moment, considering what it would be like to slip off with her, kiss her deeply just out of sight; the little peck she gave him feels like ripping open a freshly healed wound, and all he can think about is curling up in a real bed - or at least in the cramped but private beds in their quarters - with Carolina.

“I think I can handle it,” he says, voice coarse from want and disuse. York gets up carefully and walks to the bathroom, pulling the door just closed behind him.

He comes back a minute later, looking a little less miserable. York places his hands - cool, damp, freshly washed - on her shoulders and looks her dead in the eye.

“If we hurry, we might make it to my room before they realize I left,” he says, very seriously. He’s kidding, but she can see the little bit of urgency behind his eyes. Begging her to go along with him and take him home.

“I wish we could.” And she does. It is with great regret that she moves him along with her, guiding him back to the bed. “This tech is still too new, and you have been through so much, York. I want to make this official. I want to hear the doctor say ‘you're free to go’ because that means it is  _ safe _ to go.” She backs him against the bed, helping him sit again. “You've been through so much. We aren't going to risk it all now, not when it's so close to being over. Okay?”

“Okay.” He sighs, eyes closing in a long blink. “I trust you. And I’ll follow your orders.”

When he opens them again, he’s back to his irrepressible self, reaching his other arm up behind his head as he - carefully - stretches.

“Wanna call them in?”

She smiles in response, standing and moving toward the door where soft voices can be faintly heard.  As she passes, she draws her fingertips up his arm, not to tempt, just to share the joy of that touch for as long as possible. 

“I'll be right back.” The point of contact breaks, she turns and disappears through the door. 

She’s back less than ten seconds later, a nurse in tow. Carolina stands well to the side as the nurse moves in, recording York’s vitals, asking him questions and tsking softly at the unauthorized IV removal. She keeps any further criticism to herself and leaves to find the doctor.

“Still okay?” Carolina doesn’t move from her spot, her attention split between York and the door. “Not much longer.”

“I’ll live,” his tone bright and brittle. “Few more needles, few more condescending looks for being an antsy bastard won't kill me.”

She smiles encouragement, but they are interrupted by the door opening, and the nurse re-enters with the doctor. Their heads are together as they walk, the nurse keeping up a quick stream of information that the doctor appears to easily absorb despite the late hour and the way she shudders out a yawn. The nurse hands a tablet to the doctor, who looks it over, flicking her fingers over the screen as she comes to a halt in front of York and smiles. 

“Are you ready to go home, Agent New York?”

“Absolutely,” he exhales.

She details some of the terms for his release - bed rest and lots of food for the next day to help his body recover from the stress, no sparring for a couple more - and the only thing he really catches is a mention to monitor the scar.

“Oh, no, guess I’ll just have to go around the ship in tight white shirts so we know right away if I start bleeding again,” York says with mock-depression.

Carolina meets the doctor’s eyes and they both bite back a grin. “I think that is… helpful idea,” the doctor replies, eyes crinkling with humour. “And good for the rest of the ship’s morale.” Both women glance at each other again and burst out laughing. 

“Anything else?” he asks.

“No, no… you are free to go.” The doctor’s doctor’s words and smile are both broken with another yawn that threatens to dislocate her jaw. “I would appreciate if you would be willing to take a wheelchair back to your quarters. It is easy to misjudge how much energy you have right after the procedure, when you are eager to get out of bed and on your way.” 

At this cue, Carolina steps towards a wheelchair stationed along the wall, unfolding it and wheeling it over. “Don’t worry doc, I've got this. C’mon, in you go.”

York eases himself into the seat and leans back, tilting his head to look at Carolina upside down.

“I think I’ll take a rain check on that lap dance,” he murmurs once they’re out in the hall. “But I am holding you to that hot water bottle thing.”

“You got it.” With the ship this still in what passes for the dead of night here, even a whisper seems dangerously loud. “We will get you home, changed and-- are you hungry? We can stop at the mess hall on our way if you need. I'd rather not have to leave you alone to go grab you something.” Taking her hand off one handle, Carolina brushes the back of one finger through York’s hair near the base of his skull, offering comfort in touch, since he cannot see her. “Or do you just want to sleep?”

“Sleep. And then Delta. He’ll want to know how I did.” He seems to melt into the chair, content to let her push him along. The walls threaten to smear into continuous grey in his sleepy, half blind eyes. 

“Sounds like a plan.” At the mention of Delta, Carolina's mind jumps back to her talk with North, but that can wait. She can tell him later. 

The walk back goes quickly enough, and in only a minute or so, Carolina is keying in York’s door code, trying to lean to the side enough to see if he is awake or asleep. 

“York?” 

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, head lolling to the side to look up at her.

“We’re home.” The door slides open and they move in, Carolina pushing the wheelchair right up to the bed. She leaves the lights off, opting instead to turn on the ones in the bathroom, leaving the door open for softer, indirect light. “What would you like to wear to sleep in?” she asks, as she locks the wheels and comes forward to help York out and up onto the bed. “I will go grab it.”

“Absolutely nothing,” he groans, pulling at the neck of the loose gown they’d dressed him in for the procedure. “Only thing I wanna sleep inside is you. Next best thing is naked by my girlfriend.”

If her heart breaks, it's in a good way. With no hesitation, no pause to even think, she sits on the bed beside York, taking his face gently in her hands and kisses him the way she’s wanted to for hours. Soft and warm and lingering -- the kind of comforting kiss that promises that the pain won't last. 

She pulls back only enough to speak, and when she does, her mouth still touches his. “Let me help get you out of that, then we will sleep, okay?”

York moans, a soft needy sound, and kisses her again. Takes her hands and guides them to the ties in the space between the second and the third.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For getting hurt. For hurting you by being hurt.”

“Shhh. Don’t worry about things like that right now.” She kisses his hands, each in turn, then makes quick work of the ties in his gown. She works it down off York's  shoulders to pool on the edge of the bed, then steps out of her own clothes quickly, taking only enough time to kick them up against the wall so they aren't a hazard, should one of them get out of bed during the night.  The wheelchair goes next to the door, and Carolina stands naked next to the bed, looking around one more time.

“Anything else you need, sweetheart?”

He shakes his head, slowly. “All I’ve ever needed was you.” 

Smiling, Carolina puts an arm around him, supporting York down to the mattress, and then following after him. She scoots close behind him, matching each curve of her body to his so closely that even her breath on his neck is just another kind of embrace.

Her arm rests over the edge of his ribs, over the spot where the metal had pierced him and Carolina brings her hand up to press over York’s heart. She waits to feel the beat, strong under her palm, and kisses his neck with relief and release. “I love you. Get some rest. I have you now and I'm not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I,” he agrees softly, tangling their legs together until it’s hard to tell where one body ends and the other begins. “Til death do us part.”


End file.
